


Moments

by DealingDearie



Series: Choice [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-29
Updated: 2013-11-29
Packaged: 2018-01-02 22:46:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 11,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1062554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DealingDearie/pseuds/DealingDearie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of small moments set before, during, or after 'Choice'. Will involve Loki (and his various people), the Avengers, Jane, Darcy, and the rest of the Asgardians. You don't necessarily have to read 'Choice" to understand the series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Love

_Sigyn looked at Loki like he was the last single star in the whole universe, like he was the sun in an endless vision of darkness, burning brighter than deemed possible against the midnight sky, twinkling up so very far with a brilliant shine. Where he moved, her eyes followed, and where he touched, her fingertips grazed over that same spot with barely concealed adoration._

_A_ _nd for a while, Sigyn thought that she was the only one aware of how longingly she gazed at the young god._

_Loki watched Sigyn out of the corner of his eye, always glancing at her with a smile pulling at his lips. Her graceful demeanor seemed to fall right off when he was near, and it definitely didn't go unnoticed. He would have found it all quite entertaining, had it not been for the lively thrumming of his heart against his ribs, or the heated rush of his blood as it quickened its s_ _lushing through his veins, or the erratic hitch of his breathing when she smiled at him._

_That, coupled with the growing urge to kiss her that washed over his entire body, made the whole ordeal near torture. She'd flip her hair, the silvery strands sometimes falling against his face if she was that close to him, and then she'd laugh, the melodious tinkling putting him at ease._

_L_ _oki, for all of his wisdom and caution, had fallen utterly and completely head over heels for the half-breed goddess with eyes brighter than the moon._

_And he didn't see a single thing wrong with the thought, either._

_..._

_Thor loved Jane, and Jane loved Thor, and there wasn't really anything in between._

_Jane laughed when Thor accidentally took a picture of himself instead of her, and Thor smiled brightly at her all the while._

_That picture was definitely a keeper._

_He gave her a wanton smile during thunderstorms, and she returned the gesture with a blush on her cheeks, always reminded of how nothing, not in this world or the next, could harm her, not when Thor was around._

_He stopped smashing cups, and finally tried Nutella, and frowned, to the brink of tears, when he'd eaten all of it. Jane kept a constant supply of PopTarts, and never let him drink alcohol, because where there was a drunk Thor there was usually a drunk Loki, and **that** was never fun. _

_She animatedly told him of bridges and portals and mystifying things he'd already known about, but he let her keep talking, because her dark eyes lit up with an inner beauty that could rival Asgard's golden light when she did._

_And when they kissed, Jane felt like the only woman in the world-no, the only_ **anything** _in the world-and the safety and security of Thor's warm arms was her one and only lullaby._

_Because Thor loved Jane and Jane loved Thor, and there wasn't really anything in between._


	2. Friends

"I'm just saying," Tony observes, spitting out half coherent words as he dutifully munches on a handful of popcorn, "that it would be cool to teleport, or read minds, even."

He turns his head to glance at the man sitting on the other side of his very large sofa, and Pepper giggles at Tony, her strawberry locks falling into her face as she puts a hand on his.

"Wouldn't it, Phil?"

Coulson, for all of his stern professionalism and impassivity, finds himself smiling. "Huh, what happened to 'Agent'?"

Tony cracks a grin, made lopsided by his constant chewing, and he turns his attention back over to the giant, wall sized television before them, his face lit up with the glow emanating from the screen, and points a buttery finger at it with excitement as an 'X-Men' movie plays on, nearly tipping his bowl over as he jumps up from his seat.

"No, no, no. I want to be _Magneto_ ," he murmurs breathlessly, eyes glued to the action, and Pepper has to admit, Magneto _is_ pretty cool.

Coulson can't help but laugh, and he just barely catches the widening of Tony's smile out of the corner of his eye.

Fury never smiles, and he certainly never laughs, and the constant scowl residing on his face bores Agent Hill even more than the creeping progress of their ascent into the sky, seated in a rather low class plane as they head off to some remote, god-knows-where part of the country to investigate a spike in energy levels.

She puts her chin on top of her palm and gazes longingly out at the dimming sky as the world below moves on, the daily hustle and bustle of life laid out for her to see. She blows a strand of dark hair out of her eye, only for it to flop back down, and she angrily tucks it into her messy ponytail, hoping that it will stay long enough to give her some much needed peace.

Beside her, the Director hasn't changed his expression, or position, since they took off, and his posture his ramrod straight. She glances back over at him and sighs, getting tired of having known the man for so long and never seeing an ounce of anything but anger and stoic expressions, and turns back to the window, frowning.

"Too bad Stark isn't here to blow stuff up-god forbid anything _interesting_ happen here," she murmurs lowly, and sees, in the hazy reflection of the window glass, an expressionless Fury, watching in shock as the corners of his lips turn up a fraction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please R&R! Feedback of any kind is always appreciated! ;)


	3. Blood

Sif had dreams, the kind that started out purely innocent and utterly unsuspecting.

She'd close her eyes and smile in her deep slumber, eyelids fluttering as images flew past her, but her dreams, though wonderful and wild and bright, were also the kind that turned into nightmares, or maybe just grotesquely twisted imaginings of her darkest desires.

For The Lady Sif _desired_.

She desired far too much for how humble she made herself, and wanted far too often for it to be pure coincidence.

She longed for things-or people-she couldn't have, and the image of a blue eyed god came flashing by, wide smile and golden locks all tangled in her mind's tight embrace.

Sif yearned, yearned so that it hurt, for Thor, and the sting of it was made worse by the brunette shoving her way into Sif's memory, smiling up at Thor like he was the only thing in the entire world.

And then, with no warning, the nightmare began, starting somewhere around the time Jane made an appearance. Jane was falling, and Thor was yelling after her, grappling for her hand as she plummeted into a river of red, and Sif was laughing down at them both, taking Thor's outstretched hand to hold with her own, looking down her nose as Jane struggled, crimson liquid pouring into her mouth and muffling her screams as she drowned in her own blood.

Sif would wake, then, wide eyed and soaked to the bone in sweat, the soft sheets tangled about her legs as she sat up, trying in vain to calm her fast pounding heart.

Sif wanted, and longed, and yearned-all for glorious, proud, oblivious Thor.

But Sif, for all of her strength and willpower and overpowering sense of righteousness, _desired_ , above all else, to see Jane fall.


	4. Eternity

When at last Loki found the nerve to ask for Sigyn's hand, he stumbled over his words like a foolish schoolboy, and felt just as nervous as one.

Having just come back from visiting Amora's grave-always in pristine and sparkling condition, as usual- he had been in a fidgety mood, wringing his hands together as the weight of the small box in one of his many pockets felt like led against him.

Sigyn was waiting for him, naturally, by the balcony (the railing familiar beneath her palms as she recalled their first meeting in the exact same spot) and Loki had smiled, despite the ill feeling at the pit of his stomach.

_What was wrong with him?_

And then she turned, her silvery hair illuminated by the gentle moonlight surrounding her lithe form, the midnight sky lying dormant behind her as her bright eyes outshone the stars above. Loki had forgotten his words, at that point, and had rushed to her side to wrap her up in his arms, kissing her like he used to when they were younger, and she pulled away breathless, eyes round and surprised as she smiled up at him, a blush coming to her cheeks.

"You never fail to surprise me," she murmured, and Loki felt the tell-tale tug of his habitual smirk upon his lips, just before dropping to his knees, taking her hands in his with the utmost care as he gazed up at her stilling gaze, her lips parting with gleeful shock.

And the rest (as they say, right?) is history, a never ending kind of history that fails to get old-and Loki's perfectly fine with the prospect.


	5. Tension

Loki was an outcast-with black hair, green eyes, and a notorious knack for exaggerated mischief, one couldn't get far in Asgard without catching a few hostile looks-and the fact pulled him into a dark isolation.

He was alone, and as a bored teenager, it seemed like slow torture. Sparring with Thor was all well and good, excluding the scrapes and bruises and inherent brutality his brother seemed to carry around, but it couldn't hold the trickster's attention for very long. Because, despite his dark aura and cloud of loneliness hanging over him, Loki's eyes wandered to what he couldn't have-Lady Sif.

 _She would never find him attractive_ , he so often whispered to himself in the corners of the night, tucked away in a library as to avoid anyone's glaring judgmental gazes. For how could a girl like Sif- strong, stubborn, beautiful Sif-ever find it in herself to look upon Loki with anything but the thoughts of how she was better flashing in her dark eyes?

Loki never gave it any effort, never daring to attempt to woo her, and so he sat, watching Thor fight with his friends, laughing as he won-like always.

And then his eyes traveled to the dark haired warrior before him, the book in his lap long forgotten as she strolled across the courtyard like she owned it, and when her gaze fell upon him, it lingered for a few seconds too long, eliciting an inaudible gasp from him as he stared on, captivated.

Sif, though gallant and iron-willed and sharp-witted, was absolutely awful at hiding her emotions, and Loki read them upon her face as easily as he had read any book in all of his life.

_Curiosity._

It was a dangerous thing, really, and a fiery thing, and a caressing-too gentle-thing.

Because Loki, for all of his wit and humor and wisdom, simply could not resist the feel of her hair as he ran his fingers through it, silky ebony strands brushing against his pale fingers.

And he definitely, positively, _completely_ could not refuse the sultry temptation of her lips as she leaned into his loose embrace, that same curiosity shining in her heavy lidded stare as she pressed her lips to his in a dark corner of the hallway.

And _oh,_ what a mistake that was.

Because every time he glanced at the maiden, whether she was sparring or laughing or eating or sleeping or simply standing anywhere near him, Loki had the sudden and all-consuming urge to taste her, to relish in the sensation of her hands-always those soft, exploring hands-running down his face, and he nearly drowned in the overwhelming memory of it from the day before.


	6. Companionship

Natasha was cut from the same cloth as Clint, albeit the darker side of said cloth, but still.

She was of him and he was of her, and the grey areas of the relationship remained just that.

Natasha ignored the drumming of her heart when she saw him shirtless, or the heat of her blood when he came near.

Love, though described as amazing and wonderful and what not, was for children, and neither Natasha nor Clint were children.

But it didn't make all that much of a difference, when he gave her that look, that insufferable, pleading look.

Long story short, she could never eat the last fudge pop without giving him a tiny bite of it.

Clint loved Natasha, but he wasn't sure exactly how he loved her. She was a friend, and she was something more than a friend, if only because he had confessed all of his secrets to her, and yet he still had no clue.

She made him sweat in the winter, and made him stutter for no reason, and pulled a smile from him on his weakest days.

And she always, always gave him a taste of the last fudge pop.

And she could never quite hide the smile in her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please R&R! Feedback of any kind is always appreciated! ;)


	7. Because

Loki found-far too often, really-cause to smile, to laugh until his cheeks hurt from the tension and his throat was raw with use. It was happening more and more with each passing day, and every moment brought him closer to that small shine of happiness so vehemently displayed to him all those years ago.

He could find it in himself to chuckle as Thor's son took the biggest bite of cake known to man on his birthday, or as Jane quickly snapped a picture of him and Thor both as they woke up from their unexpected, night-long slumber upon the sofa.

It had been quite the tight fit, really, with two tall gods stretched out across the cushions.

He could smile over at Sigyn as she tried to convince their son to eat, pushing plates of food his way when he turned his nose from it like eating was beneath him-he hadn't thought that when Loki had turned the whole heap of it into shapes and letters, eyes widening with childish wonder.

Loki could even find it in himself to realize how quickly his heart leapt at the notion of friends, or the sudden revelation that he did, for once, _have_ them.

An offered drink from Tony, or a small smile from Pepper, and Loki was feeling completely ecstatic. A hug from Jane, or a laughter riddled conversation with Clint and Natasha-now retired and very, very busy with two utterly unruly twins-left him grinning from ear to ear.

It was all _far_ too good to be true- _and yet_.


	8. Revelation

Jane and Darcy sit, legs draped over one another as they remain glued to the TV screen, and Thor munches on his PopTart vigorously, making Bruce think that, for just a moment, he'll keep on chewing and bite his fingernails right off. He nearly does, too, before Loki rolls his eyes with a loud sigh. Thor stops to look at his brother, pastry long forgotten.

There's power in Loki's gestures, Bruce notices.

A disrupting show of aggravation or boredom brings all attention to him, as if everything else in the world is second to Loki. A display of happiness sends Thor into a blur of hugs and laughter, and usually results in Loki half-heartedly (and half-aggressively) shoving him back a few feet. Murmurs of anger seem to beckon Sigyn like a dog running after a ball, and she always finds a way to make him cool off-even in the most literal of ways, her hands upon his shoulders sometimes morphing into icy touches of blue as she allows her Frost Giant nature-or 'Icicle Side', as Tony once so mockingly coined it-to show through.

Jane and Darcy, though, seem immune, and they keep on murmuring to each other as the screen blares and flashes with bright images, and Darcy squeals as her favorite character appears, whistling out cat calls as Jane laughs hysterically.

Bruce shakes his head at them, and Thor pops the last of his late afternoon snack into his mouth, tearing open another bag of PopTarts as he does so, and he continues to precariously teeter over the edge of fingernails and no fingernails.

Loki just turns his attention to the TV, completely ignoring Thor's sudden yelp of pain a few minutes later.


	9. Dismay

Odin dreams of blood, and of dark rivers filled with screaming souls that wrench his hands in their wispy, quivering grasps, trying to pull him under the surface of the eerie water, and in that water he sees Frigga.

She's crying, always, with tear tracks branded onto her tawny cheeks as her golden hair floats around her familiar face, her blue eyes sad. The tear marks fill up with blood, and the crimson liquid seeps from her skin and her eyes and her nose and her mouth, invading the river of souls as a blooming cloud of red fills it. She cries out, her ghost like hand breaking the surface to grasp at his clothing, and then she falls beneath the water and does not rise again, his name dying on her tongue.

The All-Father wakes, frantically looking about him with a panicked gleam in his aged eye, and notices the empty sheets beside him.

The raw grief of Frigga's death still haunts him, and only when his heart has stopped its pounding does he allow himself to collapse onto her pillow, her rosy scent somehow still held captive within the fabric of the soft pillow cover, and he lets his mind drift off into a world where she never left.

...

Sigyn looks at her children and thinks-and out of _all_ the people that could cross her mind-of Amora.

Memories of the Enchantress come swiftly and fondly, or stretched out and bitter, and Sigyn finds her eyes blurring with tears each and every time.

Loki's heart is still healing, after nearly a decade without the blonde in his life, and Sigyn herself has only now begun to understand the kind of love Amora felt for the trickster.

It was a thunderstorm of anger that drove Amora to work with Thanos (abandon, hate, hurt), and a moment of clarity that called her to Loki's aid when he needed it most (safe, secret, warning), and a split second sacrifice that urged her to rush in front of him, effectively earning her a fatal wound while protecting the dark haired god (pain, love, _live_ ).

But the image of Amora-young, vibrant, _innocent_ -still flashes behind Sigyn's eyelids every once in a while, and she knows that Loki sees it, too.

In her children's eyes, she sees that exact same innocence-the kind that is far too fragile to be let loose without shattering into a thousand pieces.


	10. Fondly

Pepper notices how Tony slides a shot of-horribly expensive-scotch across the bar, watching as it stops right in front of Loki, who gives it no acknowledgment, his chin resting on his palm as he stares out the window of Stark Tower.

She thinks, that in all the time she's known Tony, he's never been one to offer a drink to anyone, unless an ulterior motive lurked behind it, but now, he's offering this god alcohol-this god who is sorely down in the dumps.

He and Sigyn must have had a fight, or maybe Thor yelled at him for something, or perhaps he and Odin had an argument, because Loki looks like he's just been slapped in the face a thousand times over, frowning immensely as Tony taps his fingers against the bar impatiently.

"You should drink up, Frosty," Tony suggests, smirking over at him as Loki turns his head to give him a withering stare. The billionaire sighs overly loud and puts his hands up in a mock surrender, shrugging before plopping down into a nearby stool. "Ok, ok, your loss. Jeez, with the way you're acting, you'd think somebody had just dumped you or something," he mutters lowly, rotating his own glass of alcohol so that the ice swirls in a slow circle, making small clinking noises every once in a while.

Loki huffs in indignation as Pepper stifles a grin, lounging on the sofa behind them and watching Tony's efforts to lure Loki into a better mood with a small feeling of pride swelling within her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please R&R! Feedback of any kind is always appreciated! ;)


	11. Stalking

It's not like Darcy _meant_ to run into Thor and Jane during one of their "private" moments, and she sure as hell didn't _mean_ to scare the living daylights out of her best friend.

Temporarily living with the two, Darcy juggled being Jane's assistant and being a person Thor could talk to about "un-Jane-ly" things, and both occupations were hard enough on their own, stressing as they were. An essay on some scientific topic that went way beyond her head had Darcy grasping for some sense in it all, and she would ask Jane to translate, even though Darcy was supposed to do that kind of work.

And so, she'd just had her head scrambled by a very professional email from a very important figure in the scientific field, and all of the mumbo jumbo within it had Darcy running after Jane, who had just passed by the door on her way down the hall.

Running wasn't her strong suit, as it turned out, and Jane was already entering a room and closing the door when Darcy had finally reached within 10 feet of her.

She didn't knock-why would she?-and had pushed the door open to see Jane and Thor wrapped within each other's arms, kissing passionately, before Jane had jumped from the god like he'd burned her, her hand clutching at her chest in fright. Her dark eyes had widened considerably and Thor had just stood there, not at all shocked by the intrusion (but then Darcy thought of all the times Loki had probably snuck up on Thor to scare him) as Jane relaxed, still ready to have a heart attack, though.

"Darcy!" Jane had shouted frustratingly, and the assistant had just nodded slowly and high-tailed it out of there before either person could catch up to her.


	12. Motive

_Amora was slender, but had no curves-not yet, anyway. She was thirteen, and if her limbs were a tad bit gangly, Loki didn't comment._

_He was lanky and thin-it seemed he would forever remain that way._

_His dark hair fell in front of his eyes far more often than he liked, and she hastily brushed it back each and every time, her long fingers carding through the inky strands with care, and when she smiled at him, it felt like the world tilted and swayed until it was upside down, leaving him in some odd dimension of gravity as he remained in place._

_It left him feeling sick, actually, but he figured that was normal._

_If a girl was foolish enough to get near him-or was it just stupidity?-then he wouldn't deter them, and Amora was very protective, anyway._

_It worked. When he felt down, undeserving, she whipped him into shape in no time, and when she was in need of practice, he taught her how to better hone her natural skills with magic._

_And then she gave him that look, the kind that was so intensely burning within her blue irises, and it nearly melted him into a puddle of green and black and confusion._

_Somewhere along the way, he stopped feeling sick, and be it from hormones or maturity, he wasn't entirely sure. He started to feel something other than nausea, and it only worsened with time-until Sigyn. She fixed all of that, but Amora's look became deeper and deeper every time he saw her; his one and only pupil._

_He never did notice how the fire in her eyes only came alive when he was near-that it wasn't just a look she was giving him, that she never could sustain the fire without him by her side-that, without Loki, she was just a slowly fading ember struggling within in a cloud of smoke._

_Maybe that was why she never walked away from him._


	13. Ember

Steve still wakes up late at night, flashes of lightning turning the darkness of his room into the brightness of daylight for a split second, and closes his eyes when the light leaves, his heart hammering as sweat rolls off of his body, the sheets sticking to his legs as he quickly jumps up, eager to find something to distract himself with.

The kitchen is always the obvious choice, fixing a midnight snack and stubbornly ignoring the flashbacks pulsing beneath his eyelids. The chopped up voice of Peggy fills his head, overcome with distant static and sorrow and the rush of ice water in his ears, and the Captain fights the urge to go down to the gym to work off his insomnia. It would only make things worse, and as he finishes his sandwich, he runs a hand through his tousled hair, blue eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Images of plane debris and sparks and a photo floating in the ocean assault him like it was yesterday, and he makes his way to his bedroom with heavy feet, plopping down on the bed with a grief laden sigh as he forces his mind to silence the muffled cries of the one girl he loved, her echoes long lost to the screech of metal on metal as his whole world darkened.

And then Steve finds sleep, even if it's haunted by a smiling face and the fading fantasy of a dance he never got to have.


	14. Ledger

_Clint almost laughs at how easy it is to outsmart everyone, and how simple a thing it is to kill a man after so many deaths already, and their guns just aren't that much of a match when put up against him and his bow. He doesn't care to understand Russian-it's actually one of the few languages he_ **doesn't** _understand-and thinks that maybe the men before him are praying, for both mercy and a painless death, which Hawkeye bestows upon them with a few well-placed arrows, before he runs off in the general direction of what he assumes is a torture chamber._

_The door's already open, and he shoots another arrow into a chest he doesn't look up from, and rushes to the chair in the middle of the room, which binds a woman where she sits, her head lowered and her curtain of crimson hair falling in front of her face, her black dress riding up just so at her thighs._

_He loads his bow, pulls back the arrow, and is just about to fulfill the Director's orders, but then she glances up at him._

_Her grey eyes shine with pride, and her face, though battered and bruised, looks unbelievably soft, her expression neutral as she raises her chin, refusing to accept defeat even in the face of certain death. But her looks aren't what makes Clint hesitate. In that stare, he sees pain, and anger, and a mountain of regrets that have begun to blur into one another, a chain of lies and deceit that have woven a web so inescapable that even the Black Widow herself cannot leave it-her own making._

_But, most importantly, he sees himself, and makes a split second decision, despite the communicator buzzing in his ear._

_He lowers his bow and puts the arrow back in its holster against his back, and he watches the slight widening of her eyes with a knowing smile across his face._


	15. Web

Bruce knows that only one person can understand him, and he knows that said person is Tony. No other can comprehend his language, the scientific terms he throws around like child's play, and the concept of what he does goes beyond most people's heads.

He's accepted that as a fact, a one remaining constant amidst an ocean of uncertainty, and to be proven wrong really throws him for a loop.

He had just been in the middle of explaining to Tony how it _was_ , scientifically speaking, possible to teleport, and Loki had cut in with his own theory, shocking the both of them into silence. The trickster had looked like a man caught in the cross hares, his green eyes darting back and forth as if he thought he was in trouble, and Thor had furrowed his brow at his brother as their gazes met.

"What did you say, Loki?" Thor had asked, and Loki had thrown up his hands, worriedly shaking his head as he'd stammered out a response.

"I-I don't know," he'd spit out, furiously trading uneasy stares with the rest of the team before looking back to Tony and Bruce, who were only then finding their voices.

Tony had guffawed, smirking in disbelief, before clapping his companion on the back, jolting Bruce's glass forward a bit. "Looks like we have a man of science over here," he'd observed smoothly, nodding in approval.

And, little by little, Loki had finally found a niche.


	16. Darts

Tony is unbeatable-unbeatable and drunk, that is.

He takes another shot of god knows what and hops off of his bar stool, somehow managing to stay upright as he sidles over to where Thor is concentrating, his hand poised in the hair as he clutches two darts in his hand, tongue resting on the outside of his lip in some absent habit that Loki rolls his eyes at, standing beside him with his arms crossed in impatience.

Thor rocks his hand back and forth a few times, squinting at the dartboard across the room, and he throws the darts as hard as he can, missing the board by a few inches and cracking the walls in the process, and Tony whistles lazily before plucking a few more off the table-three, to be exact. He gives Loki a sideways glance before throwing them in the general direction of his target, and the two gods watch, astonished, as the darts land perfectly within the bull's-eye.

Thor shakes his head in disbelief. "It's magic. It has to be," he mumbles lowly, and Loki worries his lip in thought as Tony stumbles back over to the bar, loosely picking up a bottle of alcohol to pour it into his shot glass, throwing the drink into his mouth with something akin to years of practice, and nods drunkenly, grinning.

"Yeah, it's magic, alright."


	17. Hardly

The team doesn't relax as much as they used to, since Thanos and the Infinity Gauntlet, and the added stress of the unknown puts them all on high alert.

All of them, of course, except Loki.

He strolls around Stark Tower like he owns it, completely unafraid of whatever may lie ahead, waiting to lash out at the opportune moment. No one really ever understood why Loki, of all people, would feel so at ease, with the threat of certain death hanging over his head all the time.

Whenever anyone asked about it, he simply shrugged half-heartedly, glancing over at Sigyn with a smirk.

"Live, and if you die, then so be it," he'd explain casually, and Bruce would give a disbelieving glance at Steve, and the whole crowd of people in the living room would shake their heads and go about their business.

But not today.

Today, Tony just won't accept Loki's answer, and he stands up, a drink oddly absent from his grasp, with Pepper in tow, striding over to where Loki is comfortably splayed out on the couch. He leans over the back of the sofa with a smirk, and the god eyes him with disinterest before turning his attention back to the glowing TV screen before him.

"But if the Other comes after you, you'll be screwed, and everyone's real tired today. What will you do if we can't save you?" Tony drawls questioningly, gazing down the back of Loki's dark haired head with expectance, before Loki turns, sighing inwardly.

"The Other would never come for me, not when Thanos isn't alive to torture me. Do you honestly think henchmen go on after their masters have vanished?"

He turns back around sharply, huffing with indignation at the very idea of Tony coming up with a rebuttal to that, but the billionaire opens his mouth to say something just before Pepper slaps her hand over his mouth, shaking her head with a teasing smile as she pulls him back over to the bar.


	18. Catan

Sigyn mutters a complaint as Thor's elbow digs into her side, and Jane and Darcy fumble for purchase on their shared seat. Tony and Pepper squeeze in between Bruce and Natasha, and Clint and Steve awkwardly end up in one seat, murmuring about injustices. Loki smirks, seated at a chair all to himself, and he, despite rolling a seven, laughs as he places the thief on Thor's pasture resource, smirking to himself contentedly as Thor whines out a response.

"Couldn't we have gotten a bigger table?" Clint complains angrily, red faced and uncomfortable, and Tony shakes his head.

"I told you, Maria's wedding is taking up all of the furniture, and I don't want to be rude to a friend," he explains exasperatedly, and the tiny card table they all lean against wobbles dangerously as Sigyn reaches nine victory points, and Bruce tries as hard as he can to barter with Darcy, who stubbornly refuses, shaking her head as her dark curtain of hair shivers with the movement.

Thor crosses his arms-or tries to-and Jane shoves his elbow away from her cheek so that she can breathe, her eyes lit up with annoyance. Sigyn watches, her mouth twisted in a way that shows she's uneasy, as Jane rolls her eyes, angry that she's just been set back by half because of a stupid seven, and Loki smirks as she moves the thief over to Sigyn's fields. Thor shakes his head at the colorful board.

"I told you that you should have picked sheep," he admonishes innocently, and Sigyn gives him a withering stare.

"Your pasture didn't work out so well for _you_ , either, Thor. _If I recall correctly."_

After a while, everyone has had almost enough, but Loki snorts and finally beats Jane, earning ten points, and he leans back in his large chair, arms crossed smugly as Clint yells out in defeat, flipping the board and all of its pieces off the table and onto the floor, quickly stalking out of the room with a hastily muttered curse.

He gives Loki-or the general direction of Loki-the middle finger, an appropriate response to the god's mocking laughter.


	19. Injustice

Natasha might have taken offense to the idea of Loki being let free, especially after all the suffering he had caused, and whether the rest of the team noticed or not, they didn't say.

To watch the god sit there and tell them all about the shadow realms, and to notice the sickening way Thor freely trusted him, made her stomach turn with hatred. It was so awful, to see the blood that dripped from his hands shining crimson on her own, and to know that he was being… _spared_.

To know that he wasn't being punished for his crimes.

To know, deep down, that they were alike, if not completely similar in every way.

For the longest time, she'd look over her shoulder periodically, sleeping with one eye open in the darkness, a knife kept hidden beneath her downy pillow. She'd avoid mirrors, for fear of seeing that devilish grin within her eyes, and whenever Clint asked about it, she'd ignore the issue with a glare, pushing him further and further away.

Despite all of that, the feeling eased, over time, and after a few years of being in Loki's company and not experiencing death, tricks, or betrayals- Natasha found herself trusting him, as well. It was a jarring thing, to come to the realization that, despite his evil ways, Loki had changed, and it was even more bizarre to find herself accepting it.

But slowly, minute by minute and day by day, Natasha fell into a friendly comfort with the trickster, and his sinister pranks turned into hilarious practical jokes, and she'd always end up laughing along with him. His dark gazes fell away, and she could see the truth behind his eyes, the gleam of misery lying dormant there, and whenever Thor clapped him on the back, he beamed with barely suppressed happiness.

Soon, she forgot what it was like to hate the man, and her forgiveness came just as swiftly, and she found herself realizing that everyone, even Loki, could walk along the right path once again, and that second chances, no matter how late, were never entirely out of reach.


	20. Highway

"I do not understand how this machine can speak," Thor mumbles to himself, the loud echo of it within the small confines of the car hurting Steve's ears, and he winces just as Darcy reaches around the god to take the large road map from his hand. Jane points to the small GPS attached to the dashboard, giving Darcy a sideways glance in the rearview mirror.

"We don't need the map, Darcy. I told you, this GPS works just fine," she reminds the woman chidingly, her brown eyes shining with frustration as she hurriedly turns the steering wheel to pass a torturously slow driver, and she honks for extra effect, annoyed.

"Yeah, well I don't trust it," Darcy huffs, and she commences trying to mark a path with her fuzzy pen, putting the map against her leg to write on it as Steve scoots further against the door on his side to avoid getting any paper cuts, compliments of one distracted Darcy Lewis.

Jane swerves suddenly, screaming along with Darcy as a deer cuts through the road, and the unexpected movement causes Steve's head to hit the door panel, as he was previously leaning against it to try and get some sleep, and he murmurs curses to himself as Thor eyes the blaring GPS warily, not at all uneasy with the change in the atmosphere.

Jane corrects the car and lets out a shaky sigh, just as Darcy retracts her fingers from Steve's forearms, and he complains at the fingernail sized dents in his skin before giving her a look, but she ignores him, quickly going back to her mission of finding a route in lieu of the GPS that she is positive will malfunction soon.


	21. Issues

To say that Tony was a tad bit miffed was an understatement, and to say that Loki was a tad bit happy about it was one, too.

The team, temporarily living under the same Stark-esque roof, had been, for the most part, agreeable, and everyone seemed to cooperate with their fellow comrades. Even Loki, with his tricks and magic, seemed to want to stay on everyone's good side for at least longer than a week, becoming less and less agitating as the days wore on.

Until the toilet mishap.

Tony had been going about his own business, walking past the bathroom, when he'd noticed the puddles of water at his feet- _in the hallway_. Clogging, the plumber had diagnosed it, with no small amount of unnecessary flushing on someone's- *cough*Loki*cough*- part. Within an hour, thanks to Tony's high status and dripping wealth, the toilet was in working order once again.

Thor, collapsing against the bathroom door with a hand over his mouth to keep himself from puking, had been convinced he had come across a bad case of food poisoning, claiming that the PopTarts were expired as he'd glanced at the box, the delicious pastries already sliding down his throat. He'd run for the toilet, and when at last he'd emptied his stomach, flushing didn't seem like a very available option.

Aggravated immensely, Tony had concocted a foolproof theory, one in which the plumber was somehow out to get him and his team through petty toilet revenge, and him and Loki had stared at the porcelain object for nearly an half hour, deep in contemplation.

It was the plumber, it had to be, Tony thought, and when he called a different man to come do the job, he made sure to slip a few extra hundred dollar bills in with the payment.

And Thor never did quite trust PopTarts again.


	22. Luck

Tony, being Tony, doesn't mind the fact that his familiar arc reactor no longer rests within his chest, saving his life just as it plagues his life, and he finds other ways to be Iron Man-but not the Iron Man the world knows.

He does daring things now, creating new inventions that work almost identically the same as his Mark IV suit, and jumps off buildings just to see if they work, which gives Pepper a heart palpations. Trying to avoid his girlfriend's fright, he's taken up the habit of kissing her before he plunges to his certain-not-so-much death, and whether it makes her feel better or not, she doesn't say.

"Why do you keep kissing me?" Pepper asks one evening, the sky lit up with fire by the bright orange and pink of the clear sky behind them, and he smirks as he hugs her tight.

"It's for luck, babe," he murmurs, and brings her in for another lasting kiss just before releasing her, back flipping off of the roof just because he can, and the faint echo of 'show off' reverberates in his head, and he laughs as he plummets through the air-down, down, down.

...

Loki doesn't like war, and doesn't like to fight, and hates killing things when he doesn't have to-or maybe just hates killing animals (or maybe he doesn't really hate any of it, or does now, since he's changed so drastically).

Either way, the hunt Thor has dragged him on will surely be perilous, with a man like Thor as a companion, and the blonde is already boasting about his future catches, grinning like a fool at the feast table. The juicy meats and mugs of mead don't appeal to Loki today, and he stands in a corner, swathed in shadow to avoid anyone's unwanted conversation.

A pair of hands snake around his waist and he smiles warmly, pulling Sigyn out from behind him as he hugs her, their chests pressed together in the darkness. She knows how much he hates these endeavors, but goes anyway because Thor is his brother and he loves his brother, would do almost anything for him, and so she stays quiet, basking in the feel of his icy hands upon her body as she cranes her neck to meet his lips, her hand reaching up to card through his tangle of ebony locks.

When at last they pull apart for breath, his green eyes are startlingly bright, vividly boring into her own silvery gaze, and she smiles teasingly as they hear Thor call for Loki, ready to depart.

"Just try to watch out for knives and flying hammers," Sigyn mutters, smiling up at her husband as he brings her in for another kiss.

"Wouldn't want you to come back with a spear sticking out of your foot or anything."


	23. Moola

When one thought about it, the group was actually pretty wealthy, all in all.

Tony was the first to come to mind, with his billionaire level gloating and advanced tech, and he told everyone how much money he had whenever they asked-quickly including Pepper's 12 percent, as well. Thor was filthy rich, even by Midgardian standards, with his gleaming armor and velveteen capes, and the golden halls of Asgard shined in his baby blue eyes when he smiled, always beaming over at Jane, the memory of her trip to the palace flashing behind her eyes.

Bruce, being a scientist and doctor, made good money, and never starved-far from it. Natasha and Clint, being top secret spies, never complained about their income-unless their income was really S.H.I.E.L.D. buying everything they owned for them and taking complete care of their expenses. Either way, it was nice, and Steve was none too worried about his source of wealth. If the agency wasn't taking care of him, the benefit of being a veteran would have, and he was relieved to have something to fall back on.

And when the time came-broken equipment or weapons, malfunctioning household appliances, or even the simple cost of living-Stark Tower, home to the Avengers (and Loki, but no one counted him as a member), was none too short on cash.


	24. Chances

When the opportunity arose, and it did, to discuss moral matters that hid deep seeded personal grudges, the team gave it their all.

If a story broke the news, the topics were raised, and-specifically- if a Star Wars movie was lighting up the TV screen, the merit of redemption-or lack thereof-became a brewing argument. On a particularly sad note, Anakin had finally died, and the aftermath left the two gods of the team shell shocked, as Tony looked on with a smirk on his face, still a bit surprised that they hadn't ever seen the series.

Loki had closed his agape mouth, eyes shining with emotion, and Thor had sniffed to keep himself from crying, a bowl of popcorn in his lap. Jane, snuggled up at his side, smiled amusedly, and Sigyn's eyes were as round as saucers, the gleam of disbelief lying in her silvery gaze. Clint had shrugged, idle, rolling his eyes.

"But the guy deserved it."

And so, an argument-one that lasted over two hours-had cut through the silence, one that had the team split down the middle. The ones that hailed from Asgard, or the ones overly close to those who did, sided with Anakin, while the rest of the team, excluding an indecisive Steve, sided with "any other possible conceivable character that isn't evil", as coined by Tony.

At the end of the red faced, shout filled, anger ridden disagreement, Loki realized that Clint still held malice over his head, and that Tony didn't appreciate being thrown out windows, and that Natasha, for all of her misdeeds, was will to switch to his side-an unexpected and welcome occurrence, of course.

And Steve, opting to choose neither side, just laughed at the end of it, happily aware of the time they'd wasted, and all too mindful of the deadly glare Clint threw at him from across the room, completely and totally not amused.

 


	25. Frostbite

After the revelation that Sigyn was, in fact, a Frost Giant, she didn't display her true heritage to the rest of the team, and Loki felt bound by her secret, captured by the hidden things they both kept within them.

For years, neither person mentioned it, and the group was left none the wiser. Even Thor, with his overpowering urge to know as much as he could about his friends, remained oblivious to his sister-in-law's secret, and when the chance for her to tell them arose, she held back.

It was common knowledge, as it usually was, that Sigyn's rounding stomach was the center of attention, and that its size meant more than the result of overeating, and the electric hum of excitement throughout Asgard was palpable as the Avengers visited when they could. Loki thought that it would be best if his wife was cared for by doctors of their realm, and each passing day carried with it the threat of something going wrong, which Sigyn was feeling with great intensity.

Months and months went by, all filled with Sigyn's motherly worries, and Loki soothed her as best he could, murmuring to her late at night as he smiled, fingertips brushing against the skin of her stomach with tenderness, her silver eyes bright in the darkness.

"What if the baby is blue?" Sigyn had asked one night, tones hushed beneath the covers, her face exuding anxiety. He'd laughed at her, completely amused, and the indignation in her pout had stopped him in his tracks, his emerald eyes shining with sincerity.

"I'm assuming it will be, since _we're_ both blue," he'd replied seriously, and she'd shaken her head sadly.

"Everyone will know, and they might not love the child like they should, and-"

He'd put a hand to her mouth, gently running a finger down her cheek, shushing her.

"They know I'm a Frost Giant, and the team went from hating me to considering me their friend. I think that they can handle a child that looks like us."

She'd given him a tired smile, wrapping her hand around the one over her mouth to pull it away, and she'd kept them entwined between their chests, snuggling closer to his cold skin to warm herself, which hadn't made the least bit of sense to him, but he'd smiled anyway.

"I'm going to tell them that I'm a Frost Giant, and soon."

And when Sigyn, casually splayed out on the couch of Tony Stark-visiting the tower for a brief moment-, had closed her eyes, her near translucent skin bleeding into a dark blue, opening her mirrored eyes to display their crimson hue, the whole team had jumped with surprise, yelling out exclamations of shock as Loki had looked on, both amused at their reaction and completely grounded by the unsurprised gleam in his brother's eyes, the calm understanding lying in his steady expression.


	26. Labels

Loki was, for lack of a better description, a man of many names, and wore the title proudly.

When Sif, in her younger years, had ever thought of the god, she'd usually thought of him as being a liesmith and a trickster, a deceiver of devious proportions. Her sense of mistrust slowly faded, and the boy she'd known so long ago, the one who could make even the bravest warrior flinch with wariness, had turned into the man she knew now, the one sitting across from her at the table.

Thor slumps in his chair dejectedly beside his dark haired brother, mulling over a recent fight with Jane, as Loki tries to figure out how to use chopsticks, and Sigyn laughs at him as she sits beside Sif, using her chopsticks like an expert. Her husband gives her a withering look before breaking into a muffled grin, eyes shining.

Thor calls Loki 'brother', and 'friend', and 'comrade', and Sigyn calls him 'husband', 'magician', and 'lover'.

Tony and Pepper have long since ditched their own chopstick troubles as they dig into the Oriental dinner with their silverware, and Sif recalls the way Tony calls Loki 'frosty', or 'frostbite', or 'blue's clues', and finds herself smiling despite the slight annoyance of Loki within the memories.

Odin often calls the man 'son', and Frigga once whispered 'love', and the echoes of her voice mingle behind the wall Sif tries to put up around her, and knows that the pain of the woman's death still stings Loki, even now.

The rest of the Avengers are gone, off on a self-proclaimed mission to "find food that isn't gross", and two small boys sit between Sigyn and Loki, shoveling the food into their mouths greedily. One looks up, his dark hair mussed atop his head as he gives his aunt a lazy smile, emerald eyes glistening with childish content, and his brother glances over at him with a laugh, a muffled sound that reaches past his mouthful of noodles, a thing that reaches his silvery eyes and shines brighter than the moon.

Loki gazes down at them proudly, and murmurs to them beneath his breath, gentle words that his mother once murmured to him. The boys call him 'father' and they cling to their parents so dearly, and Thor smiles whenever he sees them, and the despair once so plainly written inside Loki's gaze now lies completely dormant, nearly destroyed by the happiness that overtakes him nowadays.

Most of all, the most shocking thing that Loki's ever been called, the one thing that Sif was surprised to hear herself say after so many years (but now finds that it slides smoothly from her lips), is 'friend'.

And that's the only name that has ever mattered in all of the eons before, the depth of its impact gazing back at her from across plates of sweet and sour chicken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please R&R! Feedback of any kind is always appreciated! ;)


	27. Jars

Natasha, oddly, is terrified of spiders, and masterfully manages to stifle her grimace whenever she sees one scurrying across the floor, and Clint, upon first discovering this earth shaking secret, quickly stored it away in his mind for later convenience. Natasha- _afraid of spiders_. Contradicting her name as a renowned spy, and just plain contradicting _her_ , he thinks it a nice thought of use, and knows that he could use it to blackmail her or set her up for something or get her into a stressing situation.

Hawkeye knows this, and yet does nothing to throw her into misfortune, even when Tony comes home with a glass jar that glints in the light overhead, filled with a single giant tarantula, the fuzzy kind that have eyes so big you'd think they could see your soul. He barely catches Natasha's slight involuntary shiver, so hardly noticeable that he only feels it as she leans close to him on the couch, watching a new movie in the flickering glow of the TV before them. Tony seems so proud, and the team remains unaware of their comrade's fear, gathering around the billionaire as he holds the container aloft for all to see. He sets it on the counter, and from then on the tarantula goes by many names, one being 'Webster', and remains in his prison, gazing up at the lid riddled with small holes.

Tony slowly figures out what to feed it, and how to properly take care of it, and buys an aquarium, all for his one lone spider.

Everything's all well and good for about a week-a week burdened with Natasha's fretful sideways glances at the spider every ten seconds-until there _is_ _no_ spider.

An empty space inside the aquarium, and a wide eyed Tony, and a few uneasy Avengers, and a scared Natasha. Clint himself is a bit concerned, mainly because he doesn't want to wake up with a tarantula skittering over his face, and makes it his mission to track the arachnid down.

On the day that he does finally find it, 46 hours later, Natasha is showering, and he sneaks into her room to see it lounging on her pillow, with not a care in the world.

The decision to take it back to its aquarium or scare the living shit out of Black Widow tears at him, and he frowns in thought.

Take it back, or throw it in her shower?

The quandary takes Clint around five minutes to debate inside his head, and when he finally makes his choice, he grimaces, and scoops up the spider in his palms, hands outstretched as far as possible in discomfort as he jogs hurriedly over to its home, and plops it down carelessly.

He slinks back to Natasha's room to hear the shower clicking off, and the soft sound of her bare feet touching the cold floor is like music to his ears, and he sends the bathroom door a lazy, cheeky grin.


	28. Spaghetti

Steve goes to visit Bucky's grave every now and then, on those especially rainy days that drain the happiness right out of him, and he takes the moment in, like some life changing experience that can alter him for the better.

He tries to watch the trees and people and buildings around him as he drives to the cemetery, now all filled up and long abandoned, watching the concrete world around him as his tires roll over the sizzling pavement, the sun baring down on his windshield. He avoids the plain concrete sidewalk when he leaves his car, and instead relishes in the feel of walking through the dried grass beneath his feet, now a bit more grown up than it was the last time he came. He straightens his jacket, even though he's burning up in its leathered embrace, and takes a deep breath before trekking a path between the headstones, the colors and names all faded and cracking from the weather, all left to time as they rest upon the earth.

When he finally comes across the one he's looking for, the way he came already imprinted into his memory, he kneels onto the ground, and immediately wishes he'd brought flowers. But Bucky didn't like flowers, and so he runs a hand down the faint letters scrawled across the stone, sighing to the wind and the ground and the air, the trees around him swaying with the slight breeze as an immense sort of sadness surrounds him.

His friend isn't here, and he feels the absence like it's still a fresh, tangible thing, and pretends not to remember that Bucky is just bones broken across sharp rocks at the bottoms of mountains, lost to oblivion for decades now. He pretends that the soldier is buried beneath him, that his body is resting peacefully within a coffin surrounded by dirt, but the thought is fleeting, and he lets the tears come to his eyes, wiping them away before they have a chance to fall down his face.

When he at last finishes his visit, he goes to Peggy's house, and she answers the door with her wizened skin and soft eyes, her drooping smile and creaking bones, welcoming him with open arms as he falls into her embrace, a comfort that's both familiar and foreign to him. He makes a fist into her hair, and feels the stringy texture of the strands, noting how she's aged so much, trying to recall the way he'd carded his fingers through her brown tresses all those years ago, kissing her as the wind blew past them, a whirlwind of sensations and last moments and bittersweet smiles.

His skin is too soft against hers, too youthful and free of wrinkles, too captured within his frozen prison for too long, and he closes his eyes as he breathes her in, shutting the world away, ignoring the framed photos littering the inside of her house-dozens of memories on display, weddings and children and families that he never got to see.

He pretends not to notice the single photo atop the mantle, the black and white picture of a dark eyed woman smiling cheerily, waving her slender hand in the air as she holds her gun in the other, and a man beside her, all muscles and uniform and obedience, letting his guard down as he rests against the side of her car, his eyes vibrant even within the bleary color.

Steve presses closer to her just as she tightens her arms around him, and the faint scent of spaghetti cooking on the stove wanders from the kitchen and into the living room as he smiles despite himself and she runs a hand down his hair, the soft whistle of her breathing loud in his ears.


	29. Green

Amora wasn't lost, and she wasn't a helpless damsel, and she didn't need anyone to rely on, but no one could see that with their tunnel vision and overwhelming blind spots.

All except Loki.

He could tell right away that she was just fine on her own, and she knew that he knew it, and the whole dynamic of Loki revolved around knowledge. He thrived on it, and grew eager in the presence of mysteries, and yearned to learn and grow and simply _better himself_. Amora had no axis she turned on, but slowly, she revolved around Loki. He was her sun and moon and stars, her bright moment in the darkness, her friend.

His knowledge became her knowledge, his secrets endowed to her, and she grew along with him, learning just as he learned and loving just as he loved. She loved the night because he watched the moon with this close kept desire, and she admired the snowflakes upon the ground because he scooped them up within his palms and stared down at them with a youthful, mystified smile. She loved the color green because he was permanently swathed in it, fine cloths and armor of emerald as bright as the depths of his ivy eyes. She loved to run her hands over things, relished in the sensation of it, because he'd absently carded his fingers through her golden hair, smiling as he watched something off in the distance, as if comforting her was instinctual to him. She buried herself in the bed sheets because she had so long slept beside him in his chambers, curled up at his side as they both dreamed of far off adventures and unreachable places.

So, when Loki glanced expectantly down at her, magical tendrils snaking from his fingertips, she willed her hands to do the same, and learned a new technique each day, forever Loki's obedient pupil, his eternal best friend.

And when she reached up to push his unruly hair from his eyes, he caught her hand and gazed at her for the longest time, the saddest loneliness written deep within his eyes, and she felt the instant urge to snuff it out somewhere far in her heart and far in the back of her mind, and she leaned forward slowly, languidly pressing closer and closer until the space between them was nonexistent, her lips captured within his own as she wrapped her fingers around his hand, the candlelight dancing in waves of shadow cast upon his pale face as his heart pounded in tandem with hers.

Amora had never been lost, and she had never been lonely, and she had always done just fine, but Loki became her other half, and a moment spent without him was a moment that she was futilely grappling for purchase in an ocean of darkness.


	30. Knife

Loki could recall very distinct flashes of imagery haunting the back of his mind, leaving a traceable trail after every thought that plagued him.

He could slow down each individual glimpse of light and sound and sensations to go back into the past, to his childhood and his youth and his family and his life before everything got flipped over, bent backwards at oddly twisted angles.

He could fast forward to a moment where he felt his heart break, the silence of the weapon's vault enough to drive him to madness, tears growing cold upon his pale cheeks. He could look back on that instance and watch it all play out with perfectly clear vision-all due to hindsight, of course.

He could let himself believe that he saw it coming, when Odin denied him the one thing he'd always hoped to achieve, the weight of his betrayal pulling Loki down and down and away, falling faster and faster into dark oblivion.

Loki could even go so far as to say that he couldn't have stopped what came next, the plainly inevitable downfall after falling so far already, Manhattan lights and smoke and screams and the wind lifting his ivy cape as he held his arms out, as if beckoning something unknown.

He could tell himself every lie ever created, murmur to himself late at night-when no one can hear, when the darkness hides the tears on his face-that his actions were justified, make a mantra out of all of his reasons and logic and sanity.

But Loki knows that he is wrong, and somewhere in between being a child and being a murderer, the ability to realize the fact has left, and is only just now revealing itself-after so many years of lying dormant, forever being an afterthought. It is at times like these, when Sigyn is settled and sleeping amidst the covers beside him, her silvery hair shining in the late night shadows, flickering moonlight dancing across her pale features, that Loki finds the peace and quiet to regret, the tumultuous roar of his mind dying down enough to allow him to truly _think_. And when Loki regrets, when he thinks, he cries, for the heaviness of it comes close to breaking him. The blood thickly coated upon his hands, the echo of screams in his ear, the light of Thor's eyes reflected when he looks in the mirror; it's all far too much for one person to handle.

He tried so hard to make up for it, dedicated the rest of his life to _helping_ rather than _hurting_ , and yet-it makes no difference. The fact that his ledger is _cleaner_ for it, though, so often pushes him over the edge. The mere idea that a few good deeds could eradicate the many horrific ones baffles him, and he has to have Sigyn's reassurance when he can't face it by himself. His late night whispers become so loud at times that they wake his two young sons, sleeping in the adjoining room, as Sigyn stirs to soothe him. It's not that he needs her words, not that he wants to interrupt her slumber for his own selfish purposes, but he can't do it alone, and the gentle press of her hands carding through his hair lulls him, puts him at ease for a glorious, silent moment.

His mind is a weapon, one that wounds him daily, and only she can dull its deadly blade, her soft murmurs pulling down his eyelids so that he can finally find sleep.

And when Loki wakes, somehow curled up on their bed beneath the warm covers as the shy sunlight spies down on them, he is reminded why he gets up every morning-to face his guilt, his mind, his past, his horror, his demons, his insanity, his family, his home, his conflict, his memories. It is for the fleetingly infinitesimal sensation of not having a care in the world, of looking down at his wife's sleeping face and feeling awash with calm, of being happily aware of the silence of his thoughts, of, for one fraction of a second before the day descends upon them all, being free to enjoy the pure simplicity of life and all it has to offer, and of being able to blissfully ignore the flashes in his head-the ones that remind him how fading a line he walks, sanity and insanity two very indistinguishable things-as Sigyn smiles in her sleep, her hand absently placed in his, like some final lasting touch before the world changes for all eternity.

**Author's Note:**

> Please R&R! Feedback of any kind is always appreciated! ;)
> 
> All rights go to their respective owners.


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